


perfection in the work

by makiyakinabe



Category: The Broken Pitcher (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Gen, Retelling of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13030413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makiyakinabe/pseuds/makiyakinabe
Summary: How Orange came to have her first friend, and what happened after.





	perfection in the work

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liviania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviania/gifts).



Once upon a time, in a forest where the trees grew so tall they reached the sky and the berry groves bore the most plump and juicy fruit year after year, there were two sisters. Their names were Orange and Lemon and they lived with their mother in a little cottage with a roof that never leaked when it rained, walls that never cracked and let in the cold, and a front door that was never banged on furiously in the middle of the night by visitors unknown.

Had Orange, Lemon and their mother any guests, they would have looked at the pristine little cottage and the berry groves which grew yonder in awe. _What a charmed life you and the girls live!_ they would have exclaimed to the mother, to which she'd have smiled, preened and admitted her envy of village life in turn, bemoaning how inconvenient it was to live smack in the middle of the forest with no soul to be found for miles.

Alas, no one could quite seem to find the cottage no mattered how much they tried. And so the mother, having none to turn her attentions to other than the sisters Orange and Lemon, poured her vexations into the one and her fondness into the other.

Orange was the living image of her departed father. The mother could not stand the sight of Orange and made her do all the strenuous housework, from laundering the linens to scrubbing the floors until they shone, and on top of it all had her make repeat trips to the well every day to fetch water with a ceramic pitcher so large that she had to clutch it to her chest once full, for fear of letting even one drop of water fall onto the ground.

Lemon, being the very image of her mother, was showered with all the love she could spare. So freely did the mother bestow her smiles, embraces and words of praise upon Lemon that the she soon grew greedy and craved for more. That the mother was more than willing to indulge her beloved daughter did little to sate Lemon's craving. If her mother agreed to brush and braid her hair every morning, Lemon would demand that her hair be brushed and braided in the afternoon and also before bedtime, and if her mother agreed to sew a new dress for her to wear, Lemon would demand for not two, but  _three_ new dresses to be made so she could change from one to the other throughout the day, depending on her mood.

One day, Orange was at the well on one of her many trips to fetch water and was stooping over with her pitcher in hand, when it slipped out of her grasp, fell into the well and broke into a hundred little shards.

Orange let out a cry of dismay. She only had the one pitcher: there were no other utensils in the cottage as large and as suited for carrying as much water as the pitcher, and she had just broken it. Orange had been so very careful on every prior trip, looking keenly at the ground in front of where she stepped, lest she trip on a stray tree root, and walking as slowly as she could manage without drawing the notice of her sister—and in turn the ire of their mother, to whom Lemon was eager to report any and all faults in return for more smiles and sweet praise—

And now all her efforts were for naught.

Orange trembled where she stood. The mere thought of returning to the cottage was unbearable. She needed the water in order to do the washing up, the laundry, the scrubbing of the floors and the watering of the berry groves. Not a day went by without her mother and Lemon drinking at least a dozen of cups of tea a day and on top of it all, the both of them delighted in taking long, luxurious soaks in the tub at night. Orange dared not go home empty-handed.

Overcome with misery—and for lack of anything better to do—Orange sat down right on the grass and sobbed her heart out.

Orange was sobbing when she heard a voice ask, "Wherefore do you cry, little Orange?" The voice was the loveliest Orange had ever heard—if asked, she would say it reminded her of a bird bursting into song—and, startled out of her misery, Orange lifted her head from the ground.

Before her stood a fairy. Orange knew at once that she was a fairy, despite never having met one before—the beautiful woman had a gaze that seemed to pierce right into her soul and yet, strangely, not only did Orange not mind but she found the scrutiny to be a welcome comfort.

"I have broken our pitcher," Orange found herself saying. She had never known what it was like to be looked at with fondness or smiled at kindly, and in that instance, were she asked to share her innermost thoughts and deepest secrets, Orange would have confessed them all on the spot. "Mother will beat me for it."

"Dry your tears, little one," said the fairy, "and worry not. I live hereabouts and know this land, and every creature who dwells upon it and under, as well as the back of my hand. I will help you, for I know you are a good little girl who deserved not the family you have."

Had Orange not been speaking to a fairy, she might have protested and said _Mother and Lemon are not that horrible, really_ , or _I am not good for I ought to have been less clumsy_ , but as she was, Orange merely nodded her head and watched with wonder as the pitcher flew out of the well, back into her hand, and looked for all the world as though it had never slipped from her grasp nor broken into a hundred little shards.

Although the pitcher was not exactly the same as before, Orange realized, as the pitcher wriggled in her grasp and she let go in surprise. For it had sprouted arms and legs which appeared to be made of ceramic like the rest of it, except Orange had never seen ceramic as supple—and less fragile, she noted, as the pitcher landed with its feet planted firm on the ground.

"There you have it," said the fairy, "a little pitcher who you could call a friend and would be with you always." At this, the pitcher made a bow. "It will carry the water itself and walk home with you whenever you have need of it. Go home now, be a good little girl and all will be well."

And with these words, the fairy vanished as sudden as it had appeared.

The sight of the pitcher leaping in to the well then out, nearly filled to the brim with water, brought a smile to Orange's face. Wiping tears from her face, she took hold of the pitcher's hand and they walked home together. The arms and legs vanished from the pitcher the moment they came within sight of the cottage and, bending down, Orange picked up the pitcher and walked over to the door, then went in.

Orange dared not speak of what had happened over at the well, for fear of drawing her mother's ire. Neither her mother nor Lemon acted as though anything strange had happened, to either her or the pitcher, and by nighttime she had come to believe that nothing had, that she had imagined meeting the fairy and seeing her pitcher sprout arms and legs.

The next morning Orange awoke early, as was her wont, and sighed. "If only it weren't a dream," she said to herself wistfully, remembering what had not-happened yesterday, and with a heavy heart she climbed out of bed to begin the housework that would occupy her from dawn to nightfall.

But it had indeed not been a dream, for the little pitcher was bustling to and fro in the kitchen when she came into it, and with a cry of joy Orange ran up and embraced her new friend.

From that day onward, Orange's life took a sharp turn for the better. The pitcher would lend a hand with the housework whenever she had need of it, walk to and from the well with her carrying the water itself, and between the two of them they would finish all that needed to be done and have plenty of time left to spare. Never before had Orange so much time to herself as she did now, and she relished every moment of it. She and the pitcher would take long walks in the forest,  picking fresh flowers or berries, and as Orange opened her mouth and let her voice mingle with birdsong more and more often the pitcher would break into a jaunty jig that had her laughing and clapping to keep time. Every day was better than the last, and Orange was so happy that she thought her heart might burst.

The same, however, could not be said for either her mother or Lemon.

Orange had always did her best to keep out of their way, as per their wishes, but her mother and Lemon, perhaps sensing the lightening of Orange's mood—although they had no proof and could not fathom the reason for it—began to find faults where there had been none before. Her mother developed an abrupt, inexplicable distaste for the smell of fresh air and demanded that all windows be kept closed. The flowers that she picked for Lemon to wear in her hair or display in her room seemed to wilt as soon as soon as her sister laid hands on them. The berries she brought home, no matter how plump and ripe they looked, were all spat out by both her mother and Lemon the moment they bit into them and declared to be overly tart—

And yet when Orange tried one berry for herself, no matter which berry she picked, the juice that burst on her tongue tasted only of sweetness.

It was all very strange, thought Orange, but when she spoke of the curious developments to the pitcher it merely rubbed its rim with a hand, and she knew that her friend shared her confusion.

And then, one day, Orange and the pitcher returned to the cottage one of their long walks to find not a soul in sight. So stunned was Orange that her arms fell to her side and had the pitcher not sprouted arms or legs, it would surely have shattered into a hundred little shards.

As it were, her friend landed safely on its feet and tugged anxiously at her hand, drawing her from her thoughts. Orange crouched down, gave the pitcher a great embrace, thanked it and went about her day. It would not do to spend all her time fretting, she told herself. She did not know where her mother and Lemon went but they would surely return, and she must keep the cottage well looked-after in their absence.

But her mother and Lemon never did return, and Orange never did learn what became of them.

 

* * *

 

(One day, Orange would hear a knock on the front door and after some insistent pushing and pulling from the pitcher, answer it to find a beautiful woman who cried, "Goodness, my poor child, have you been living here all on your own?" and wrap her in a warm embrace—and pull back to introduce her daughter, who had a smiled that reached her eyes and a hand offered in friendship—but _that_ , alas, was another tale altogether.)


End file.
